Eternal sunscreen of a spotless forehead.

Who cares if I'm caught crouching under these words? If you do find me, you will only find pieces of me, and perhaps that will be some sort of salvation.

There is a rumour that echoes around my room all day long, frantically, like a rabid son of a bitch: we were destiny's children, now we work full-time as daydreamers holding placards for people who will never arrive.

She is a bad guest, she is. Oh no, she left. Her ghost stayed behind. What an intrusive creature. A noisy feeling of worthlessness is like a bad guest who has overstayed their invitation. You mess around with these dangerous thoughts at random moments thinking maybe having them over for a night won't be that bad, but soon they've made it their mission, much like a virus, to hijack your cellular factories to produce more of themselves. And so you open doors, cupboards, drawers, and cabinets in your own house every day to find her omnipresent ghost chilling with an indifference that you only wish you had.

And so we feel we have shackled ourselves, arresting our movement through the world. I might object at times that it's like pausing for a while to have a cup of tea by the road while taking a walk on a fine afternoon, except that it's not like that at all. It is like shackling oneself to a rich man's porch because one's own room has bad lighting.

But when I think I'm being unfair to myself, I thunder with indignation: "I reject this tone. Ambition, rejection, fair-skin, great teeth, avocados, sunscreen, supplements, collarbones duly hidden: a noisy feeling of worthlessness is like a bad guest but host propriety is a social construct." But the ghost, totally impervious to Hanuman Chalisa, stays on.